by Debra Dunbar
With a patient sigh, Raymond said, “Baby girl, you really think they respect me on the water? You don’t see things the way I do.”
“Well, these daft bastards from Richmond are one thing, but—”
“But nothin’. I get hell everywhere I go. From the Crew. From the other watermen. Fuelers. I gotta think twice and three times about everything I say before I say it, or else someone’ll take offense. Assume I’m gettin’ all uppity, and be ready to cave my head in or worse. I got a family I gotta take care of, you know.”
She frowned. “I know that.”
“Well, all I’m sayin’…it ain’t just your goose that’s gonna get cooked.” He peered over his shoulder at the office, where Lizzie had withdrawn to soak her head in whiskey. “Lizzie? She’ll be okay. She’s got that gangster that’s gone sweet on her. And she’s a take-charge type. Maybe too much.” He glanced back at Hattie with looming eyes.
Hattie whispered, “What are you getting at?”
“If we get nabbed,” he replied, “she’ll cut line on the both of us.”
Hattie thought it over and couldn’t disagree. Lizzie was always business first. She was a hard thinker. She’d managed to keep the business together after her husband, Jake, was gunned down on the Bay. Kept the contacts intact, blazed new paths into the Crew. She’d even figured out that Hattie was a pincher before Hattie ever thought of revealing her identity to the woman.
Lizzie was about survival. And if Hattie’s illusions failed them at the wrong moment, then Lizzie would have a plan figured out to escape the blowback before Hattie and Raymond even felt steel on their wrists. Hell, she probably had a plan already.
Hattie whispered, “Then we won’t get nabbed. Will we?”
“Damn straight,” Raymond replied with a tight grin and a bump of his fist against her shoulder.
They loaded as much liquor into the truck bed as possible without creating a toppling hazard. The load was top-heavy to be sure, but the drive through D.C. wouldn’t be a quick one. They’d take it easy. Nice and slow. They debated waiting until nightfall in order to take advantage of the darkness. It would make the cost of Hattie’s magic a bit cheaper in the short run. However, the Feds doubled their patrols at night. The trade-off was more than Lizzie could accept. And so, they decided to head out immediately.
Hattie climbed into the passenger side door, pulling the vial of Aqua Vitae from her blouse, settling it in her lap for easy access. Raymond started the engine, and they eased forward, the jute rope creaking a bit as the cases of moonshine leaned their weight. They would take Route 1 due south, directly into the northeastern hinterland of the District. It was the quickest route, but it took them straight through the capital. In this case, fast was better than long.
The drive through Howard County was quiet, but not peaceful. Hattie kept her head on a swivel, eyeing forward and backward as Raymond focused on keeping the payload steady. The first real moment of tension came at the border of the District and Maryland. Two Model Ts sat on either side of Route 1, a clutch of young men standing at either side of the road. Hattie spotted them from a distance, but there was nowhere to go but through.
“What now?” Raymond asked.
“You know what to do,” Hattie whispered.
“Okay, well, whatever you got cookin’, best pour it outta the pot.”
She watched as the Feds let two cars pass before flagging down a large Volvo truck. One of the goons harangued the driver while two more pulled open the tailgate and rummaged around what appeared to be wooden furniture. The shakedown lasted only a minute before the Feds waved the truck through.
Then came Raymond’s turn.
Hattie recited her illusion through her mind as Raymond eased forward, only to have the lead Fed flag him down. Olive oil. It had worked before, and she was familiar with the illusion. She knew what it looked like, smelled like, even tasted like if it came to that. She waved her fingers in a tiny circle near her lap, and pinched the light around the rear of the truck, trying to keep the radius as discreet as possible.
Raymond slowed the truck to a stop as the trench-coated Treasury man approached his window.
“Afternoon,” the young man declared, eyes flickering back and forth between them. His face tightened as he took in the sight of Hattie, and he eased his sharpening gaze back to Raymond. “Miss? You, uh…you alright?”
Hattie nodded twice. Just enough to answer the man. Not enough to break focus.
Raymond offered, “We’re friends, is all.”
The man’s face snapped tight. “I wasn’t asking you, boy.”
Raymond dropped his gaze to his lap, knuckles gripping the steering wheel in panic.
Hattie risked turning her head, centering as much focus on her illusion as possible, though it was already tugging at her guts.
She cleared her throat and said, “Sir, this man is my driver.” Her tone drawled with a humid Southern belle accent.
Raymond lifted his brow and stole a quick glance at Hattie. Hell…even Hattie didn’t know where that voice came from. Playing with illusions in the market area had taught her several tricks these past few months. Adopting the mimicry of an Upright Citizen seemed appropriate under the circumstances.
The Fed nodded, then peered back toward the truck.
Hattie renewed her focus on the illusion as a wave of nausea racked her abdomen.
She heard the tailgate swing open. Eyes probed the illusion, searching the tops of the crates. Green glass bottles, she meditated. Green glass bottles. Hattie allowed a very subtle aroma of olive oil to leak out from the light pinch. It was a minor scent, but the added dimension of magic hammered her in the chest and throat.
Two men pulled a bottle out of different crates and Hattie gritted her teeth, expanding the illusion of touch, sight, and smell to both men. One cracked open the top of the bottle, sniffed, then took a swig. She bit back a moan, tasting blood in her mouth as she hunched over in pain.
Another bottle opened. The contents sniffed and tasted. If they didn’t finish soon, she was going to puke blood all over the inside of the Runabout.
The Fed next to Raymond’s window called out, “What’s the word?”
The tailgate slammed shut, as a voice called out, “Nothin’. Bunch of oil.”
A stream of warmth poured from her nose, tickling Hattie’s upper lip. She turned her head to face forward, lifting a sleeve to her nose as casually as she could.
“Sir,” she moaned with aristocratic impatience, “we have appointments to keep.”
The Fed checked his tablet, lingered over Raymond for a brief moment, then nodded. “Alright, then. Have a good one.”
Raymond released the brake and pushed the Runabout forward as fast as he could without raising attention. Once they’d reached two blocks, Hattie released the illusion, then clamped a hand over her mouth.
Raymond pulled the truck over, easing to a stop just in time for Hattie to shove open the door and vomit onto the side of the road. Spitting her mouth clear, she felt grateful that she’d skipped a meal.
“You okay?” Raymond asked, reaching for her arm.
She waved him away. “We did it.”
“Well, we’re just crossin’ into D.C. Not there yet, and judging by the look of you, you’re not gonna be doing that again.”
He was right. That illusion had taken a huge toll on her. She might be able to hide the crates as they drove through the city, but another multi-sensory illusion needed for a second inspection stop would be beyond her.
Unless…she looked down at the vial in her hand. She needed to be stronger, to recover quicker. She needed to ensure this booze got to Alexandria. It was time to be bold, to make this happen, for all their sakes.
Hattie eased the stopper from the vial, dangling it over her open mouth. A single drop of the elixir fell onto her tongue, sending a wave of cold energy through her throat and chest.
The nausea melted away like fog on a summer morning. Her breathing eased into a normal rhyth
m. The nosebleed even stopped. She reached beneath the seat to fish out an old rag, and cleared her face.
Raymond watched in silent terror until she gave him a shuddering nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”
“That…that liquor, there?”
She dropped the vial back into her lap. “Aye.”
“It’s what I gave you last time you were so sick? Back in the field the other day?”
“Aye.”
“What is it?”
“Distilled magic,” she said. “Puts things to rights.”
“I got that much,” he grumbled. “But, is that your plan? Just about kill yourself, then nip on that magic potion?”
She stretched her neck, then turned to face him. “That’s the plan, boy-o. I’m ready to do it again, if need be. And again. And again if I have to. That’s the benefit of this little bottle of snake oil.”
“Well, I don’t like it, baby-girl.” Raymond shook his head then put the truck into gear as she deposited the vial into her blouse. They made the drive through the District, coming close enough to see the Washington Monument and the cupola of the Capitol, with remarkable ease, all while Hattie hid the contents of their truck with barely a twinge of nausea.
After a half-hour’s drive south, they crossed the Key Bridge into Virginia. Hattie eased up in her seat to look over the Potomac River. The enormous swell of muddy water flowed southeast toward its confluence with the Anacostia. Hattie had never boated this far inland along the Potomac. She’d only made it as far as Fort Washington, and that was with an empty boat. The old city sat just downriver of Georgetown, rows and rows of houses running at odd angles, all surrounding the cluster of governmental buildings huddled around the tall white obelisk near its center. It was a broader space than Baltimore and a bit cleaner. Its energy was fussier. Hattie was certain she wouldn’t last very long in a city like this.
Just as her thoughts eased back into the present, Raymond shoved on the brakes, sending her bracing against the console.
“What is it?” she gasped.
Raymond stared forward at another roadblock, this one securing the border between Virginia and D.C.
“Well, shite,” she muttered.
“Ya got enough gas in the tank for this?” he grumbled.
“Aye. I think I do.”
As the line of cars crept toward the roadblock, this one a bit more invasive than the last, Hattie worked up another illusion. Same as before—olive oil in crates. The sun had begun its descent toward the west, but though the quality of light had changed, it wasn’t enough to make the illusion any cheaper on Hattie.
They eased forward toward the new bevy of Treasury men.
Hattie pinched light and loaded her unpracticed Southern drawl.
These new Feds were a touch older, and certainly more mechanical. As Raymond nodded to a man with salt-and-pepper hair receding from his temples, the Fed simply asked, “What’s in the back?”
“Olive oil,” Hattie replied.
“Mmm, hmm,” the Fed hummed, checking his clipboard. “Mind if we take a look?”
“That’d be just fine, sir,” she cooed.
The illusion felt a tad easier this go around. The weight of power wasn’t churning her intestines quite as hard as it usually did. As the tailgate swung open behind them, Hattie braced for the pairs of eyes probing into her magic.
“Looks like oil to me,” one of the men said. Then he reached in and pulled bottles from the crates, squinting to look through the glass. Hattie held her breath and closed her eyes, concentrating.
The man muttered something, but she was afraid to open her eyes and break her concentration. The bottle clinked back in the crate, and Hattie squinted open her eyes to see the man pulling another out, unscrewing the top.
Sight, touch, smell. She waited for the nausea to hit her, for the blood to bubble up in her lungs, but she felt nothing beyond a mild abdominal cramp.
“Uh, sir?” the man’s voice crackled from behind the truck.
The salt-and-pepper Fed offered a nod then withdrew to the rear of the vehicle. A conversation ensued, gathering in intensity.
Raymond peered through the mirror at the rear of the vehicle.
“Hattie?” he whispered.
“I’ve got this, Raymond.” She lifted a hand, then added further dimension to the illusion.
“Hattie,” Raymond urged in rising volume.
“What?”
She twisted in her seat to find a young Treasury man lifting a green bottle of olive oil to the sunlight as the older Fed made notes on his clipboard.
The illusion flickered, and for an instant the oil was a mason jar of clear liquid. The man holding it yelped.
Shite.
“We’re nabbed,” Raymond grunted.
“Can’t be,” she caught her breath. “Can’t.”
Oh no. Something was wrong. Something… Hattie squeezed her eyes shut, pushing hard at the light pinch. But if they’d caught that stutter, that might be enough to pull them out of the illusion.
A babble of excited voices came from the rear of the truck, and Hattie whimpered, realizing that Raymond was right. They were nabbed. Frantically trying to stitch the illusion back together again, Hattie opened her eyes and saw the younger man take a swig from the olive oil bottle.
The man released a paroxysm of coughing, nearly spraying his older cohort with high proof alcohol as he wiped his mouth. The older Fed raised a whistle to his mouth and blew.
Raymond sucked in huge breaths. “H-Hattie?”
“I’m sorry.” Tears stung her eyes and she looked around, frantically trying to decide what to do. Make the truck disappear with themselves inside? The chances of that working with the Feds staring right at them were slim to none. What should she do? What should she do?
Feds trotted from across the street, ducking aside as a bicyclist nearly bowled into them.
Raymond grunted, “Hell with this,” then hammered down on the accelerator.
The Runabout lurched forward, sending the crates of moonshine hard against the jute. The load was too much for the rope, which creaked, whined, then finally snapped. Crate after crate of white lightning slipped out the back of the truck bed, smashing onto the road in a burst of smashed glass, and a spray of moonshine.
Raymond jerked the steering wheel hard, sending the truck down the bank toward the riverside, slicing through tall grass on their way to the Potomac.
Hattie gripped the window and the console, her eyes wide, chest heaving. How? How did this happen? Maybe physical health wasn’t the only limit to her magic.
Or maybe she just wasn’t good enough. Or good at all.
Feelings of shame spilled heavy into her chest as Raymond thundered through the brush alongside the river.
“Wh-where are you…going?” she wheezed.
“They’re on us,” he shouted. “Gotta get off the road.”
Hattie turned in her seat, peering over a now-empty truck bed at a pair of cars slicing through the tall grass some few hundred yards behind them.
“Do you think they’ll—?”
Before she could ask if they would open fire, gunshots rang out behind them. Raymond reached for Hattie, shoving her head below the seat. She clamped her eyes shut, adrenaline thundering through her arteries, and waved her arms over the front of her face. “Disappear!”
There was a familiar tug on her guts. The truck was gone, but she couldn’t do anything about the sound. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe.
She opened her eyes, glancing up at Raymond.
He growled, “They still on us!”
A tear rolled down Hattie’s cheek and she dropped the illusion.
“Hold your breath!” Raymond bellowed.
“What?”
“I said…” he jerked the wheel sideways. “Hold your damn breath!”
Hattie eased high enough to see out the windshield at the muddy Potomac approaching at alarming speed.
“Dive, girl!” Raymond shouted.
He kic
ked open his door and rolled into the grass as it gave way to water, cannonballing in a huge mass into the river.
The truck slammed into the Potomac, sending Hattie’s head into the console. Stars shone in her vision, and little else. The vehicle twisted and bucked beneath her, and she grappled all around for purchase. The dizziness eased a bit as the ringing in her ears continued to whine, and she found the truck had plunged up to the hood into the water.
She pulled at the door handle and tried to push it open. Cold water rushed in around her waist, shoving her back against the door. With a scream, she kicked at the door, sending a spate of river water into the cab. The entire truck listed toward her head.
With frantic hands, she reached for the steering wheel as it rotated over her head. Water began spilling in through the driver’s side window, and she realized the truck was half-submerged already. With great heaves, she pulled herself up to the driver’s side of the bench, and up to the window opening.
There was a loud rush of wind all around her, and the golden sunset sky beyond the driver’s side window snapped into a dark film as the truck slid completely underwater into the Potomac.
Hattie held her breath, kicking her feet as the rush of water finally stopped, sending her into a simple buoyant freefall. Her lean figure wriggled clear of the driver’s side window and into the space of river water just beneath the surface.
She could hear muffled cries just above the surface so she lingered but the noise withdrew as the current of the river carried her forward.
And downward.
Hattie kicked her legs, pushing herself toward the surface as the water threatened to suck her down. Her face broke clear, and she sucked in a gasping breath, her hair plastered to the sides of her face as she bobbed along the surface of the river.
The two pursuing cars were now several yards away, the Feds wading ankle-deep into the river, still eyeballing the submerged Runabout. Hattie scanned the banks for Raymond, but she couldn’t find him.
Finally, as the river neared a bend, and she worked to tread water in proper waterman fashion, a voice rasped nearby. Hattie pivoted with a rotating scoop of her hands to find Raymond’s head bobbing a few dozen yards away.
